Nine months passed in a fugue of silent terror. Kunti had been given a divine shield—her maidenhood remained intact—but the very life within her was the proof of a cosmic trespass, a scandal far greater than simple sin. Her fear was a heavy cloak she wore constantly: the fear of social ruin, the destruction of her father's honor, and the complete collapse of the Kuntibhoja Kul (clan). She knew the world would never distinguish between an act of curiosity and an act of defilement.
The night of the birth was a nightmare of secrecy, played out in the deepest, darkest corner of her chambers. The pain was brutal, accepted as a deserved punishment. The single, terrified maidservant was her only aid, sworn to silence by a look that promised a worse fate than death. Kunti bit down hard to stifle the screams, ensuring that the palace, which now slept peacefully on its foundation of her honor, would not stir.And then, in a rush of pain and relief, he arrived.
In the faint, flickering oil lamp light, the terrifying dread that had been Kunti's constant companion was immediately, violently replaced by a surge of purest, primal maternal love.
She reached for him, and gasped—not just from exhaustion, but from overwhelming awe.
He was radiant, impossibly beautiful, his face perfectly Tejeshwi—luminous and gold-hued like the dawn. But it was not just his face. Upon his chest lay a natural Kavacha (armor) of shimmering gold, fitted perfectly to his body as if hewn from a single, divine ingot. From his ears hung a matching pair of glorious Kundala (earrings), glittering with the sun's own light.
A son equal to the deity's glory. The Rishi's words echoed, terrifyingly real.
Kunti brought the infant to her breast, weeping openly now, the tears falling onto the impossible gold. The warmth of the baby, the raw perfection of the divine armor, screamed at her: Keep me. Love me.
But the voice of duty, colder and sharper than the fear of the gods, cut through her heart.My father. The Kul. The dishonor.
The maternal love was immense, but the responsibility to the thousands in the clan, to the generations of ancestors, was absolute. She had to choose honor over heart.
With trembling hands that moved with agonizing slowness, she set about her final, desperate provision. She found a strong, water-tight basket. She placed her most precious and heaviest Swarn Aabhusan (gold ornaments)—thick bangles, a heavy necklace, and anklets—inside the basket, arranging them beside the golden child. Let this gold tempt a good heart to claim you. Let this be your dowry to a kinder life.
She wrapped him tightly, placing him carefully in the basket. It was a burial of her own soul.
"My son," she whispered, her voice a raw sound in the silent room. "You are the Sun's glory, but I am just a princess bound by mortal shame. The world will not allow us both to live with honor. May this sacred Ganga carry you to a destiny worthy of your armor."
Accompanied by the weeping maidservant, Kunti made the furtive, agonizing journey to the riverbank. With a final, crushing kiss to his perfect, armored forehead, she pushed the basket into the dark current. The Kavacha and Kundala caught the faint starlight, gleaming briefly as the basket was swept away into the black vastness of the Ganga, leaving Kunti alone with the silence of her unbearable secret.